“Come on, there is a special box. I have never been able to sit in it before!” Brangien pulled her swiftly past the steps and benches. They climbed to the top of the wall, nodded at a guard there, and entered a wooden structure. It was built out so that when they reached the open front, they were suspended above the fighters. Between the cushion-covered benches and the roof above to provide shade, they were the most comfortable people in the arena.
Certainly more comfortable than the men beneath them. The warriors pounded and hacked at each other. Their thick leather armor, sewn with metal plates over the most vulnerable areas, absorbed the blows. But Guinevere screamed and covered her mouth as a man near them took a brutal hit.
“The swords are blunted,” Brangien said, patting her hand. “There are still injuries—sometimes terrible—but no one has died.”
“What are they doing it for?” There were more than a dozen men down there, performing war like a minstrel performed songs. Guinevere’s heart raced. It was terrible, and exciting, and she did not understand the purpose of it.
“Training, some of them. See, there are Sir Tristan and Sir Caradoc. Sir Bors is directing the fights.” Brangien deftly identified each man, though to Guinevere they all looked the same: like helmeted, armored death.
“Is Mordred down there as well?”
“Oh, no. He never fights. He thinks much too highly of himself to train with his brother knights, even though King Arthur often joins them.”
“And who is—”
Brangien gasped, clutching Guinevere’s hand. “He is here!”
“Who?”
Brangien pointed to a new knight who had entered the ring. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and he wore a leather mask that obscured his entire face. His armor was unusual, too, a jumble of metals of different colors. The variety made it look less like armor he wore and more like it was a natural part of him.
“The patchwork knight! That is what they call him. No one knows who he is or where he is from! He comes sometimes, wins every fight, and then disappears. Oh, he is terribly popular. It cannot be long before he earns a tournament and becomes a true knight of the king.”
“Would Arthur do that? Offer a position to a stranger?”
“That is how Sir Tristan got his knighthood! Through his valor in the ring.”
“So anyone could perform well enough and then have a place at the king’s side? A place in the castle?”
“Yes, but aspirants can only compete here once a week. And there are always so many of them. It is only a matter of time before the patchwork knight makes it through, though.” Brangien’s tone was distracted, her attention entirely on the ring as she leaned forward, breathless with anticipation.
Guinevere had a reason to pay attention now, too. Because there could be anyone—or anything—behind that mask. Using it as a way to get close to Arthur.
Though a dozen other fights were happening at the same time, it was clear who the crowd was there to watch. Every move the patchwork knight made was met with cheers, shouted advice, even a few jeers from those loyal to the unfortunate opponent being mercilessly pounded. The fight lasted only a few minutes before the patchwork knight’s would-be rival stumbled out of the ring, admitting defeat. The loser took off his leather armor and threw it.
His theatrics were lost on the crowd. They only had eyes for the patchwork knight. But rather than raise his arms or exult in his victory, he stood perfectly still, his sword tip resting on the ground, both hands wrapped around the hilt. He looked like a statue that would come to life only when challenged.
Another aspirant—Brangien clarified that was what they called those who tried their hand at besting the knights—entered the ring. The aspirants for the week’s matches fought each other. Only the winner among those would be allowed to fight one of Arthur’s knights.
“Most days there are so many aspirants that the knights never end up fighting one. The sun sets before they work through each other,” Brangien explained as another aspirant strode confidently into the ring with the patchwork knight.
“There are that many trying to become King Arthur’s knights?”
“Oh, yes. Those who do well enough can enter his service as a standing army. They are given lodging but still have to work for food and train on their own. Only a handful have made it to his actual circle of knights. And those who have were all trained in other courts. A man used to planting fields would have to work for years to best a lifelong knight. But Arthur’s system gives them training and creates an army of men we can call on in times of peril.”
It made sense. What did not make sense were the patchwork knight’s skills. In the time it took Brangien to explain the system, he had already defeated the confident aspirant. This one had to be pulled insensible from the ring. And again the patchwork knight went back to perfect stillness. It was almost inhuman.
Guinevere leaned out over the balcony, squinting as though she could penetrate his mask that way.
“That is what is so unusual about the patchwork knight,” Brangien said. She was embroidering a strip of cloth, scarlet thread pulled through in a pattern Guinevere could not see yet. Brangien barely looked at it, her deft fingers knowing their business. “He has obviously been trained. All the other trained knights who competed, like Sir Tristan, announced themselves. Their names, their titles, where they came from. The patchwork knight has never said so much as a word.”
“Interesting.”
“Be careful,” a voice said behind Guinevere, startling her so she nearly fell forward. Slender fingers grasped her waist. She looked up into Mordred’s face. He released her, stepping back to a respectful distance. “You should not lean too far out. You might fall. Perhaps the queen should not be so invested in the fights that she risks her own neck to see them better.”
Mordred sat on Guinevere’s right side. Brangien scowled on her left. “Most of the men,” Brangien said, directing her voice to her embroidery, “do not sit in the box. They are too busy training.”
Mordred laughed. “Most of the men have something to prove down there in the dust and the blood, playing at war with blunted blades.”
“Do you watch the fights often?” Guinevere asked, trying to keep the conversation banal and civil.
“Only when there is someone worth watching.” He stared directly at her. She narrowed her eyes, but before she could reprimand him, he nodded his head toward the patchwork knight. “I could not miss this.”
The second aspirant was still on the ground. No. It was a new one. The patchwork knight had defeated his third opponent. His actions were like the other men’s, but more forceful, more efficient. He moved faster, he struck harder, he anticipated every blow before it came. When he did get hit, he twisted away from the pain as easily as if the swords were reed switches.
Guinevere had never before seen fights. Even knowing the swords were blunted and the blows not fatal, she cringed and ached in sympathy at every one. And several times she almost found herself joining the elated shouts of the crowd when the patchwork knight defeated yet another aspirant.
After perhaps an hour, she allowed herself to glance to the side. Mordred was leaning forward, his eyebrows drawn low in concentration or concern. He, too, watched the patchwork knight. Not admiringly, or excitedly, like the crowd. But as though he was studying a foe. Or a threat.
“You seem quite intrigued by the patchwork knight.” Guinevere sat up straight and delivered an artfully fake yawn to imply she was not just as invested in the knight. “If you do not fight, why the interest?”
Mordred leaned back. “Look at the way he moves. Every fight is the only fight for him. He does not want this. He needs it. Anyone that intensely focused on a goal, anyone with a purpose that single-minded, is dangerous.” His words surprised her; it must have shown on her face. He smiled. “Not all of us protect my uncle king with fists and swo
rds. And I am always watching.”
She wanted to look away from the intensity and the intelligence she saw in his mossy-green eyes. This time she did not question his meaning. He was watching the patchwork knight, yes. But he was also watching her. And he wanted her to know.
A cold prickle of danger passed over her. She was here to protect Arthur, like Mordred was. But her methods of protecting the king had to remain secret at all costs. She turned deliberately back to the fights. “I am glad my king has you on his side, then.”
“On his side and at his side, whenever he needs me, however he needs me. Did you ever hear the story of the Green Knight?”
“No,” Guinevere answered.
“Well, you are not likely to because it features a knight who is not quite human, and definitely not Christian. And we do not tell these stories anymore. Do we, dear Brangien?”
“We do not tell that story because you tell it so often there is no need,” Brangien grumbled, not looking up from her work.
Mordred laughed. “Tongue like her needle, just as clever and twice as sharp. But our queen has not heard it.”
Brangien heaved a sigh and dropped her sewing. “Before the Dark Queen was defeated, Arthur and his earliest knights were questing, looking for supporters. Sir Mordred, Sir Percival, and Sir Bors came to a path through the forest—the only safe one—and found their way blocked by a knight. Green armor, green skin, beard of leaves.” She waved a hand dismissively. “All green.”
“You are terrible at telling stories.” Mordred frowned, sounding hurt.
“He would not let them pass unless they found a weapon that could defeat him. Sir Percival tried a sword, but the blade got caught in the thick wood of the knight’s arm, and Sir Percival could not pull it back. Sir Bors tried a mace and chain, but the dent in the Green Knight’s chest blossomed and re-formed.”
“They were at a loss,” Mordred cut in. “Their weapons had no effect, and they could think of no way around a problem other than hit it and hope it bled. Not everything can be solved with iron. So while they were occupied trying and failing to hack the Green Knight apart, I crept into the forest and—”
“A deer,” Brangien interrupted. “He brought a deer back to eat it. The Green Knight thought it was hilarious and let them pass.”
“Brangien.” Mordred put a hand to his chest as though wounded himself. “You have the soul and imagination of a hammer. Stories are not nails to be driven home. They are tapestries to be woven.”
“Your stories are burdens to be endured. Now can we please watch the match?” Brangien retrieved her sewing, belying her words by focusing on that instead.
“What happened to the Green Knight?” Guinevere asked, intrigued. No one here spoke about the time before the Dark Queen was defeated. It seemed a wondrous and strange landscape. One she felt more akin to than the order and stone of Camelot.
“Excalibur happened. And that was a far more permanent end than being nibbled on by a gentle doe.” Mordred’s tone was wry. Whether he was mocking himself or Brangien’s storytelling, Guinevere could not tell. He stood and bowed. “Allow me to find refreshment for you.”
Brangien hissed softly after he walked off. She looked up, then smiled and tucked away her embroidery. “Oh, there! He has defeated another. That makes fifteen. I believe there are only thirty vying today. He may yet get to the knights, if you wish to stay that long.”
“Is he likely to meet King Arthur tonight, then?”
“No. If he gets to the knights, it will be an official tournament. Each knight will choose his preferred form of combat, and meet him on the field. He does not have to defeat all of them to win his spot. But he does have to defeat at least three.”
“And if he defeats all of them?”
“That has never happened. But if it did, then Arthur himself would challenge him in combat.”
Guinevere felt ice in her stomach. “Here?”
“No. Past the lake, in the meadows.”
The meadows. Where Arthur had pushed back the Forest of Blood and reclaimed the land. That dirt was soaked in the blood of magic. If the patchwork knight was a fairy creature, he would be more powerful there than in this ancient, dead city. And Arthur would be vulnerable, ensnared by his own rules. If Guinevere were planning to attack the king, that is where she would do it. Where the knights still felt comfortable and at ease, but the protection of their city was not around them.
Guinevere stood. “I am feeling faint. I would like to return to the castle.”
Brangien scrambled to pack her things back into her satchel. On their way out they passed Mordred, who was carrying a goblet of wine and a plate of bread and cheese.
“Leaving so soon?” he called. Guinevere did not answer. She needed to speak to Arthur. And, more importantly, she needed to break free of her maid in order to follow the patchwork knight after he was done fighting for the day.
* * *
“The king is not in the castle.” Brangien offered the explanation with an apologetic tone. Guinevere had sent her to find Arthur as soon as they returned to her rooms. “He is often gone. He travels his lands constantly, checking in with the farmers, ensuring the roads are clear. He is not one to sit idly on a throne.”
“Where is he now?” Guinevere tried not to be hurt that he would leave the day after their wedding. Obviously she knew it was not a real marriage, but no one else did.
“The forest,” Brangien said, her eyes lowered. “The one that took the village. He left with men to burn it back.”
“But it is not within the borders of Camelot.”
“He does not turn away from a fight. Even when it is not his own fight.”
Guinevere admired that about him. He was king to his people, yes, but he extended that responsibility and protection wherever he could. Even when there was neither threat nor benefit to himself. Arthur was…good. That was the burning warmth inside her when she thought of him.
She was glad for it. But today it was inconvenient. She wanted to warn him about the patchwork knight and her suspicions. Perhaps the delay was better, though. She needed more information.
“Brangien, thank you for taking me out. It was wonderful. But I am afraid I have overtaxed myself. My head aches, and I would like to lie in the dark. Is there a meal I am supposed to attend tonight?”
“Of course you should rest. Feasts only happen once a month. A few nights you may be expected to dine with the knights and their wives, but no one has inquired about you for tonight. If anyone does, I will tell them you are—” She paused, looking for the right word.
“Overwhelmed with love for my new king and country and insensible with joy.” Guinevere smiled slyly, and Brangien laughed.
“Unconscious with joy, even.”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
Brangien drew the curtains and pulled down the covers. Then she helped Guinevere undress, unlacing her from her sleeves and outer gown. “I will be in the sitting room, sewing. I will not disturb you or enter unless you call for me. If you fall asleep for the night, rest well.”
Feeling silly and deceitful, Guinevere climbed into bed. Brangien adjusted the blankets over her, and then slipped from the room.
Guinevere climbed out of bed.
She checked the first trunk. No woman of her status would be in the streets alone. Neither would a lady’s maid of Brangien’s caliber, but there was more room to improvise there. The queen needed a tincture, or requested a special spice for her food, or some such thing that would demand the urgency of a maid rushing into the city alone. Surely even the queen’s maid could get away with being out after curfew if it was under a direct order from the queen.
Then again, Guinevere had no idea what—if any—authority the queen actually had in Camelot. It had never had a queen. She would have to ask Arthur about that, as well.
The first, second, an
d third trunks all held her things. She paused, her hand hovering over them. Not her things, not really. How quickly she forgot. The fourth, a small one in the corner, held Brangien’s possessions. Her clothing was simpler. Guinevere could put it on alone.
Guilt twisted inside Guinevere as she pulled out a dress and a hooded cloak. Clothing was expensive and valuable. This was the bulk of Brangien’s material wealth, and Guinevere was stealing it. But she would return it all unharmed.
Relatively unharmed. She pulled a seam from the cloak, knotting and tying the broken thread in a confusing mess. It would be impossible to untangle. And when she pulled the hood over her head, the knot magic would extend so that anyone glancing at her face would find themselves unable to untangle who, exactly, she was.
Guinevere pulled on the hood, then swayed. A little of herself went into every knot, every piece of magic she did. And she had done more in the last twenty-four hours than she used to do in a week. She really would have loved to crawl into bed and sleep away the evening. But much like faithful Brangien, she had work to do, and she would not neglect it.
She stepped into the hallway and walked with the hurried efficiency of a woman on a mission. She followed their path from this morning, navigating the stairs in the low afternoon light. Hopefully she would be back before nightfall.
There were more people out now, errands being run and business being finalized before they lost the sun. The masses in the streets, gossiping and calling to each other, buying and selling and haggling, meant she was just another person in the crowd. She loitered outside the arena. There had been some women in the seats, but only accompanied by husbands. She knew she would stand out if she were to go inside alone. The roars and cheering told her that the combat was still going strong.
Needing something to fill her time, and not wanting to miss the patchwork knight through an error of her own, she walked the circumference of the arena. Houses were built close to the walls, and she skirted puddles and crates. Arthur’s little shits did their jobs well, though. It was remarkably clean.
The Guinevere Deception Page 6
